


Le génie du mal

by Ruler_of_Nope_Island



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Implied Masturbation, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Homophobia, Pining, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruler_of_Nope_Island/pseuds/Ruler_of_Nope_Island
Summary: Lt. John Irving thinks about Cornelius Hickey."some get away with murder, being beautiful -"-Marilyn Hacker





	Le génie du mal

**Author's Note:**

> The mention of L'ange du mal (google it) is anachronistic since it happens after Franklin's expedition but honestly no one is reading this for its attention to historical accuracy.

The ice creaks. A stray draft blows out the candle. You can admit things to yourself now. The all encompassing arctic darkness becomes your confessor. 

(is this how Papists do it?)

Cornelius Hickey is beautiful in a way that no man should be. Men can be handsome - Thomas Jopson is handsome, Henry Pelgar is handsome, Captain Fitzjames is handsome -

(now John, says the popish dark, that’s a very long list of men who are handsome)

You want to argue back but you’re not sure you’re allowed to. You’re pretty sure that you’ve never even spoken to a Papist about this ridiculous little ceremony and have no wish to but the compliance with the order of things is something you can draw strength from. 

Where were you? You line up your thoughts like soldiers. 

Cornelius Hickey is beautiful.

There is something of the fox about him. Perhaps the shade of his hair. His smile. The beauty of a sleek carnivore. And it is so untouched by everything - stubble creeps like mould onto the faces of other men, their skin peels and flakes, some are even starting to lose their hair - but Hickey remains as he is. Always was. He’s always been lean and wiry that his skin doesn’t sag as the muscle falls away. While other men’s eyes grow dull and despair carves deep lines into their faces, Hickey’s eyes are still bright and his skin is smooth.

(the dark admonishes you again. You should not be looking at men with such eyes)

An artist’s eye, you insist. You look at everything that the Lord made with a sense of wonder with a hope that you may preserve the feeling of it in paint, so that others may look on it and gain some appreciation of the Lord’s holy works.

(but only the devil could make something like Cornelius Hickey)

You remember the story of a sculptor who made a statue of Lucifer so beautiful that the church complained - only for him to replace it with something even more gorgeous, even more blasphemous. 

 

That kind of male beauty is a curse. It inspires lust in women and a virulent hatred in men. Because it is so undeserved - with that beauty comes a kind of arrogance, a knowledge that it will unlock the bedroom doors and open the legs -

(John, don’t be vulgar)

-of the weak. Captain Crozier, who was never beautiful and not even handsome and looks more and more chafed and lined by the day, had ordered Hickey whipped as a boy. Not just because of the insubordination, you think, knowing that your thoughts are safe with the dark, but because he wanted to see that beauty sullied. Punished. Let all the men see what the beautiful deserve. 

Was it meant, you wonder, to sully him in the eyes of the men, too? Here is a man, look on his flayed backside and his private parts shrivel in the cold and mock him. Hickey is less of a man because he is beautiful; let him be punished as a child because he is not fit to be seen as a grown man. There is some dignity in a scarred back. Hickey does not deserve dignity. He does not deserve to have someone bright eyed and enchanted stroke the scars across his shoulders while he makes up some story about the wickedness of jealous captains. 

You felt your eyes stray to his pale, slim thighs. His chest. His body almost hairless like a boy’s but he had an abundance of hair there -

(watch yourself, John)

His eyes were full of tears, too. Again, like a child. You saw men try to hide their flinches because they knew they should not be sympathetic. You wonder how many of them longed to take his face in their hands and wipe away his tears. To kiss his bitten and cracked lips which made him somehow more beautiful, not less, because it proved he was human and not marble -

(only you. And Gibson.)

Gibson had closed his eyes. Gibson is not a handsome man. He says Hickey “pressed him” but now you wonder...surely Hickey could do better for himself than a gangly steward. If there were more men with such inclinations then surely he could have his pick.

(are you angry because he didn’t pick you?)

How do such men find each other. Is there some signal they have? It’s a dangerous business. Men hang for it. How could anyone risk death to satisfy their own perversions? Not to mention eternal damnation. Why couldn’t men control themselves? Women seemed to manage well enough, although obviously they are not as troubled by such carnal thoughts and wants as men are. A woman only wishes for a comforting embrace, surely, a sexless need that they can indulge with a friend or a sister. 

When a man wishes for a touch he must turn to his wife. Or a whore. 

(when was the last time you talked to a woman, John? Had some desire to hold her, to make her your wife - )

You wonder what you would have said had Hickey come to you. Unlikely, since the difference in rank and your reputation for honouring the Lord in everything would make it so much more dangerous, but the thought is there and is merely a harmless speculation. 

Perhaps all of this may have been avoided. You could have guided Hickey, gently but firmly, away from sin and disobedience into being a better sort of person. A better man. With a desire for nothing but honest labour and sincere prayer and wholesome pleasures.

You imagine him looking up at you, those long-lashed, blue eyes sober and calm for once. Not a smirk on his face but a smile, a genuine smile, because he is happy to see you and grateful for all that you have done for him. You reach out your hand, expecting a firm handshake but instead he takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks on them hungrily

(dear lord, forgive this poor sinner)

Your mind drifts. The devil has his hand on you. No, it is Hickey’s hand, grasping you through your trousers. You pull his hand away, then strike him, righteous fury -

(and then what, John? Now that you have him in your power?)

He is naked and ashamed in front of you. You see you have stolen his pride in his beauty. Good. He should be humble. Would he beg you to stop as you turn him around, on hands and knees, and stroke his scarred arse? You could take him and he would enjoy it anyway, no matter what he might protest. He would make no noise lest others come running. He would enjoy it and you would too, for his lovely body would belong to you and you alone and he would say it was better for him than it ever was with Gibson and his eyes would be full of tears and you would warm his cold flesh with yours, every inch of his smooth skin pressed against your own and you would kiss his insolent mouth and he would look at you with devotion and not contempt -

(wipe your hand quickly, before it dries. Oh how you have erred. Oh how you have debased yourself.)

Everything about Cornelius Hickey is of and from the devil. His beauty. His insolence. His arrogance. But it is cold out here, so cold that even the fires of hell might freeze. You resolve to think no more on him, lest you degrade yourself further. 

But everyone deserves salvation. It is easy to be kind to the pious and the godly. It is harder to show compassion for the weak sinner. So you will conduct yourself no differently with him than you would with any other of the men who have erred - those who drink, those who blaspheme - with calmness and a respect. Perhaps it is more than he deserves. But you will not be damned for not showing him God’s love. 

(those eyes. If he cries again, tears streaking those cheeks you want to kiss, you’d forgive him anything.)


End file.
